


Don't Be Salty

by MaddieStilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, M/M, Punk Derek Hale, Tattoo Artist Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieStilinski/pseuds/MaddieStilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Stiles is pretty sure he could paint the lights in Derek’s eyes when he smiles a hundred times and still not be bored. He’s pretty sure he could fill galleries with the partition between his lips. He could kiss the stars every night and never want to come home.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Be Salty

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyy. It's been a while. Here's a punk!Sterek ficlet for your Sunday evening. I hope you like it!

Sometimes, Stiles questions his life choices. Like that one time he threw a Christmas tree out of a seventh floor window. Or the time he got drunk and told Erica he loved her. Or the time he asked Scott to find a dead body with him…

But none of them, not even the small werewolf-sized elephant in the room, top this. Because the thing is, Stiles is talented. He’s spent three years at collage studying art, started his own tattoo business at the age of twenty one. He has work in _galleries_ for fuck sake. And yet here he is, drawing, of all things, a panda.

‘But pandas are cute!’ Scott had tried to convince him earlier in the day. ‘You can even make it arty. You know, make it pink or something!?’

Stiles had nearly snapped his pencil in half.

 

So yeah, regretting life choices is starting to be something of a trend in his life. But he draws the panda. Because he’s a nice guy. And also because he’ll get an extra thirty dollars for it. No arguing with that logic.

He’s just finishing the shading over one of the sickeningly large eyes when there’s a knock on his door. Considering it’s eight thirty on a Friday evening, Stiles assumes it’s not Isaac or Allison. Because they’re out. Which leaves one last broody asshat.

‘Come in,’ Stiles calls, not bothering to get up. He’s in sweatpants and his t-shirt from work, folded up on his bed. Granted he’s covered in pastel coloured paint, mainly pink, a little blue, but he doesn’t think that’ll eat away at his badass facade too dramatically.

The door opens slowly, swinging forward a little to reveal the usual ensemble of black, and… and Stiles has stopped breathing.

‘What the ever-loving _fuck_ has happened to you?’ he yelps, dumping his sketchbook on the bed next to him. Paint splatters the sheets. It’s not the best response, he knows that. But when your usual two hundred pound mass of broody werewolf shows up at your door covered in leather and sporting… pink hair, it can be somewhat disarming.

In Derek’s defence, he looks absolutely furious.

‘It’s for Erica’s party,’ he all but growls. He gestures at the leather. ‘She chose the outfits.’

Internally, Stiles applauds Erica’s power. Externally, he just stares. ‘Did she also choose the pink hairspray, or was that a personal touch?’

Derek could light fires with the hatred in his eyes.

‘Okay,’ Stiles backs up, sliding off the sheets and raising his arms to shoulder height, ‘okay so the hair thing was Erica too. Why does that bring you to my room?’

‘I can’t…’ Derek starts, waving a hand suggestively around his head. His cheeks are bright pink. ‘I can’t get the hair stuff… I can’t get it even.’

Stiles almost laughs. _Almost_. He values his life too much to do it out loud. He notices the small can of hairspray in Derek’s other hand, the one not covered in a leather glove, and the dots connect. ‘Oh,’ he says slowly, gesturing at the can. ‘Oh, you want _me_ to do it?’

Derek, if possible, goes even pinker. His shoulders visibly sag as he starts to back out of the room. ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to. It was stupid to ask-‘

‘Woah there, Princess Bubblegum,’ Stiles interrupts, practically sprinting to stop Derek from leaving, ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ He smiles up at Derek, and plucks the can from his hand, ignores the vicious look Derek’s giving him. Because despite what he might think, Stiles _likes_ having Derek around. He’s the only one who really _gets_ his work. Everyone else acknowledges it, nods in interest, then gives up. Derek sits for hours watching him draw, actually _asks_ him about things. He’s even got a few of Stiles’ designs inked on his arms; some swooping, erratic coloured ones that mean something more than anyone but the two of them will ever know. They’re mixed with other designs, other people’s work, but his are the ones that stand out. His are the ones Stiles traces with his eyes when Derek’s shirtless and making cereal in the morning. Or when they’re playing video games, and Stiles just happens to sit next to him on the couch. His eyes go straight to those stretching hours spent alone in his shop, tracing permanent lines of ink onto Derek’s phenomenal form.

But that’s neither here nor there.

‘Now,’ he says, taking a step back. ‘Where do I start?’

Derek, god bless his heart, actually has the grace to look grateful. ‘Maybe I should sit?’ he says, gesturing at the only place suitable; the bed.

Stiles smirks, bows and lets Derek pass. ‘Sit away.’

‘Don’t be a dork,’ Derek retorts.

‘You’re a dork,’ Stiles shoots back.

And of course, that’s when Derek notices the sketchbook. ‘Bit different from your usual stuff,’ he says, picking it up and examining it. ‘Not that I don’t love Pandas,’ he adds, tracing the dry paint with the pad of his finger. ‘They’re cute.’

Stiles groans loud enough to make the earth shake. ‘Can you not,’ he whines, trying to snatch the book up. ‘It’s for one of Melissa’s friends. How the hell was I supposed to say no?’

Derek snorts. Stiles glares. ‘What?’

‘Oh it’s nothing,’ Derek says, watching Stiles put the book down on the desk. ‘It’s just that, you call me a dork, but you’re the one drawing pandas for middle aged women.’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to assume a woman’s age,’ Stiles mutters darkly. He wholeheartedly regrets saying yes. But Melissa had asked, and to hell if he can say no to a McCall. ‘It’s just a quick one. I have some time.’

‘You’re ridiculous.’

Stiles glares harder. ‘You wanna start this while I have this in my hand?’ He wiggles the can in Derek’s face.

Instantly, Derek pales. ‘You’re right,’ he mutters, ‘sorry.’

Stiles softens. ‘It’s cool.’ He moves until he’s on the bed behind Derek, tries not to wince at the massacre that is Derek’s hair. ‘Where do I start?’

‘I don’t know,’ Derek leans his chin on his knuckles. ‘Just… make it even, or… something.’

‘Such specific instructions,’ Stiles laughs, rolling his eyes. ‘You know if you’d have said that to me in the shop I would have put a bunny on your arm.’

Derek shudders, turns slightly to look at him, ‘A bunny?’

Stiles shrugs. ‘Bunnies are my speciality.’

 

Derek gets strangely quiet after that, so Stiles takes the opportunity to start spraying. Interestingly, it’s actually fun. Like, really fun. He might be a little too into it, if he’s honest. But whatever. Derek’s hot all the time, even with pink hair. Hold that thought, _especially_ with pink hair. Stiles imagines the rest of Derek’s body hair miraculously turning pink, and wow, that was not where he thought this evening would go. But just imagining Derek’s chest hair bright pink, and his…

‘ _Shit_.’

The can goes a little further south than he envisioned, leaving half of Derek’s forehead a brilliant shade of hot pink. Derek looks less than pleased.

‘Oh my god, dude. I’m so sorry,’ Stiles blurts out, horrified. Before he can even think about what he’s doing, he’s dragging his pyjama bottoms from the floor and rubbing them on Derek’s face, the material covering enough that Derek can’t see how red Stiles is. Because he’s just made Derek Hale, Derek _sexy eyes McHale’s_ face pink. Real good work, Stiles. Real good.

He’s so engrossed in fixing his mistake, he doesn’t even notice when Derek gently lowers his hand, holding his wrist firmly enough to move it away. ‘Stiles,’ he says calmly, ‘it’s fine.’

‘No it’s not,’ Stiles says firmly, trying to regain control of his hand. ‘I’ve ruined your face.’

‘Like the rest of me isn’t already a state.’

‘But,’ Stiles starts, staring down at the now pink trousers in his hand, ‘the party. You’re gonna be late.’

Derek laughs, rolls his eyes. ‘Erica won’t mind. She only wants me there to torment me.’

‘That’s not-‘ Stiles starts to speak, but his train of thought gets lost in the corners of Derek’s mouth. Stiles hasn’t seen him smile in ages. He never realised how much he likes it.

‘That’s not what?’ Derek asks, leaning in a little closer. And wow, yes, that’s very close. Stiles can almost feel his breath on his face. He doesn’t back away.

‘That’s not why you’re going,’ Stiles says, a little hoarsely. ‘She likes you. We all do.’

The look Derek gives him is so off-guard and earnest, Stiles actually wanders if eyes can kill. Because Derek’s hot, there’s no getting around that. But Derek, all soft features and raised eyebrows, is probably the most wonderful thing to happen since, well, anything. Stiles is pretty sure he could paint the lights in Derek’s eyes when he smiles a hundred times and still not be bored. He’s pretty sure he could fill galleries with the partition between his lips. He could kiss the stars every night and never want to come home.

 

‘It’s washable,’ Derek says.

Stiles blinks. ‘What?’

‘The hairspray,’ Derek murmurs, finding Stiles’ eyes. ‘It’s washable.’

Stiles suppresses a shiver, nods, then steps back, leaving the path to the doorway clear. He coughs once, rubs the back of his head with his hand. ‘Right, yes,’ he says, blinking again. ‘I’ll err, go get a towel, or-or something. Cool.’

He bolts from the room and skids straight into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. At the sink, he braces his hands on the cool porcelain and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He feels strangely undone, torn apart from the inside-out, the ghost of Derek’s breath still heating his cheeks.

Trying for distraction, Stiles grabs a towel and sticks it under the tap, letting the water soak it through. He wrings it out, then takes another deep breath. He thinks he knows how the towel feels.

‘Stiles?’ The voice is so close and low in his ear, Stiles can’t physically stop himself from flailing, throwing his body around with just enough finesse to miss Derek’s face, which is, again, dangerously close to his own.

‘Derek?’ he starts, clutching his chest. ‘What the hell-?’

But he doesn’t finish his sentence. In a move Stiles can only describe as inhumanly fast, Derek bends and locks his hands under Stiles’ ass, lifts him up to sit on the sink. Stiles has no idea what’s happening, but manages to link his arms around Derek’s neck, opening his legs so Derek can fit between them.

Stiles, the master of speech that he is, only gasps and says, with a nod to the sink. ’This can’t be safe.’

Derek shrugs. ‘I’ll know if it starts to break.’

Stiles glares, but there’s no heat behind it. ‘Of course you will.’

Derek snorts, ‘Don’t be salty.’

‘I can’t believe that sentence just came out of your mouth.’

They’re closer now, somehow, both rushing with adrenaline and electricity, static energy sparking between them. Stiles’ eyes find Derek’s lips, map them out, then move to his eyes, stay there for a while. It’s like every dream he’s ever had, except this time, it’s better. Because it’s here, and it’s now, and it’s _Derek_. He never thought those things would coincide. And yet here they are, millimetres apart, both wanting, wanting, wanting so much.

‘I can be young too you know,’ Derek breathes, smile cracking a hole in Stiles’ restraint. ‘I can say cool things.’

And that’s Stiles done. He can’t help the laugh that comes out of him, and desperate and airy and warm. ‘God, you’re such a nerd,’ he says.

Derek scowls. They’re so close Stiles can taste his words. ’You’re a nerd.’

Stiles barely whispers when he replies, ‘Fight me.’

 

When they kiss, it’s not just lips and hands and tongue. No, it’s friction and fire and teeth and quiet moans pressed against the bathroom mirror. It’s Derek carrying him back to the bedroom when the sink starts to make ominous creaking noises. It’s them pressed together as Derek sucks bruises into his neck, tracing his tongue around the ink decorating his skin. It’s Stiles pulling Derek’s shirt over his head like his skin is the only thing that can cure him.

Derek ends up being an hour late to the party.

Stiles has an exceptionally hard time washing pink hairspray off his bedsheets.


End file.
